


Go Fetch

by mangocianamarch



Series: Le Livre de L'abondance par La Dame Marciana [7]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Human!Smaug, M/M, There will be smut in later chapters, hitman/bounty hunter/assassin!thorin, informant!bilbo, well they're all human tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...Your happy ending is not quite here yet. I'm sure you'd like it to be, but it is my unfortunate and unenviable task to let you know that it isn't.”</p><p>Sequel to "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1054389">If Tonight is the Last Night (Red Wine, Cheap Perfume and a Filthy Pout)</a>"</p><p><b>UPDATE</b>: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1062083/chapters/2442771">Chapter 3</a> up now (02/17/2014)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS IT, THIS IS THE THING.
> 
> Me and [Rachel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barracutie) are super excited about this, we've been working on this for a while, so we'd totally appreciate feedback if and when you can spare the time. I know this first chapter is short, but that was on purpose.

“Run it again. One more time.”

“Thorin...”

“ _One more time_.”  
“Flight is at 11:40am, you're entering from the south gate, I'm coming from the north, we're meeting at the boarding gate, we can't be seen in line together, we can't sit together until we're on the plane, you're leaving here half an hour after I do.”

“Once more.”

“Thorin, for fuck's sake!”

“I just want us to be safe, that's all.”

“Honestly, Thorin, I don't think we can be safer even if we made everybody leave the damn airport.”

“Bilbo...”

“I know what's supposed to happen, all right? Just trust me.”

“Be there.”

“I will _be there_ , Thorin.”

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

No, Bilbo isn't here.

Thorin tries not to look too stressed about it. Maybe he was just caught in traffic. Maybe he's just grabbing something to eat. Maybe he's misread the tickets.

No. Bilbo would have texted him if it were any of these.

Still, Thorin really should smack himself upside the head. He's just worrying too much, that's all. This is just Bilbo rubbing off on him. He's sure Bilbo is on his way, and he'll let Thorin know somehow. He'll walk up to Thorin, smile shyly and offer apologies, scratching at the back of his head and blushing, and Thorin will just have to watch from afar until they're on the plane, but Bilbo will be there. He will be. Anytime now. Any...time...

“Mr Oakenshield, I presume.”

Thorin squints up at the figure who has approached him, silhouetted against the bright ceiling lights.

“Who?” is Thorin's first reaction, because that's just instinct.

“No need for that, I can assure you,” says the stranger, stepping out of the light a little, “Is this seat taken?” Thorin looks to the seat beside him, but before he can lie and say that it is, the stranger waves him off. “No, of course it isn't.”

Thorin spares the newcomer a side-long glance, careful not to draw attention to the two of them. Tall, slim but lean, prominent nose, maroon suede coat, slicked back hair, circular gold pendant around his neck, lighter in his hand that he keeps clicking open and close.

“I know who you are, sir,” says the man with an air of casualness that makes Thorin all the more uneasy, “There's no need to pretend to be anyone else.”

“And who the fuck are you then?” Thorin responds, hostile but wary.

“Ah yes, of course,” replies the stranger, still so polite and calm, “How rude of me. Unfortunately, I can't tell you my name just yet, but let me say for now that I am a friend.”

“Somehow, I sincerely doubt that,” Thorin snorts, “What are you doing here?”

The stranger shakes his head and _tsk_ s. “Still not the right questions,” he says, “But what am I here for if not to inform you?”

“Inform me of _what_ , exactly?” Thorin asks, growing more and more frustrated by the second.

“Of the fact that your happy ending is not quite here yet,” answers the other with an air of storytelling, “I'm sure you'd like it to be, but it is my unfortunate and unenviable task to let you know that it isn't.”

A lump forms in Thorin's throat. Surely, he can't be implying...

“What do you want?” Thorin breathes, casting his eyes around to see if this bastard has brought friends with him that could take him out with one wrong move.

The question makes the man let out a chuckle. “At last, Mr Oakenshield,” he says rather gleefully, “The right questions. What do I want? I could tell you, or I could just say that I already have it. Or rather, I have what I want _for now_.”

There is something so sly, so smug about the way that he says it, and suddenly Thorin is raising a hand, ready to punch him, or throttle him, or throw him to the ground and demand more answers. But then his wrist is in the other man's grip, tight to the point of causing pain, and now they are looking at each other, and there is absolutely _nothing_ polite or casual or genial about this man and his beady-eyed smirk.

“Bilbo is quite unharmed,” says the other, still calm as ever, “But for how long, I cannot say or guarantee. No, Mr Oakenshield, you cannot ask me where he is, for I will obviously not tell you. You'll have to find him, otherwise why would I have gone to all this trouble?”

Thorin's hand balls into a fist, and the stranger just tightens his hold on him.

“What,” Thorin hisses, teeth gritted, “the _fuck_ do you want?”

“Suffering,” replies the other, far too simply, “Vengeance. A reclamation of the past in order for a renaissance to begin. Death? Not necessarily. If it comes with the package, I wouldn't exactly say no to it, but I'm not quite in the mood to deal it out myself. There are worse things, I think you'd agree.”

“Who are you?” Thorin asks, seeing red, “Who the hell are you?”

The man smiles, but it is cold, almost menacing. “Even I have forgotten what I used to be called,” he answers, “But those who know me call me _Smaug_.”

“The fuck kind of name is that,” Thorin cannot help himself from muttering.

“The kind you will remember, Mr Oakenshield,” is the biting remark, “One way or another.”

This, more than anything yet, strikes cold fear running down Thorin's spine. _Seriously, who IS this fucker?_

“I'm going to let go of you now,” Smaug informs him, “I trust you've gleaned at least the gist of what's about to happen. I'm going to leave, and you won't know where I'm going, but it is now your task to find out. Find me, and you'll find Bilbo. Find us, and everything will be made clear. Now, it could be that easy, of course, to just let you chase me around, but again, where is the fun in that? So I'm giving you a deadline, Mr Oakenshield, but no, I don't think I should tell you what that deadline is. You'll just have to wait and see, won't you? Yes, I think that should do nicely.”

He all but tosses Thorin's arm back at him, and Thorin winces. His wrist is red and aching. He thinks the bastard might have sprained it, at the very least.

“I'll be off then,” says Smaug, rising, “I'd say 'see you soon,' but that's not exactly going to be the case, will it?”

And with one final smug smirk, Smaug walks off, turning his collar up before shoving his hands into his pockets. A few seconds later, two or three other men stand up from where they've been watching and walk after him.

Thorin watches, rubbing at his wrist, his mind going at a thousand miles per hour.

_Bilbo kidnapped._

_Bilbo captive._

_Bilbo in danger._

He needs to get up and get out, start somewhere already. He doesn't know how much time he has, can't even be sure that Bilbo really _is_ unhurt, but fuck, he's got to try. Bilbo's counting on him, Bilbo needs him, Bilbo is waiting for him, _Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo_...

He's barely out of the chair he's in before he collapses again, his limbs weak, his vision blurry. There's a stinging in his wrist, but he's only barely aware of it now, as his brain shuts off and his sight goes black.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rule number 1: Don’t trust anything you see with your eyes right away; nothing is as it seems."

_Thorin took one look at him and felt his eyebrow rise so high up his forehead, he thought it might disappear into his hairline._

_He had expected tall, big, fit, tattooed, rugged. He had expected leather jackets and rubber-soled shoes. He had expected secure canvas bags and concealed weapons. He had expected something completely different._

_He hadn’t expected...this._

_Small, pale, curly-haired, blue-eyed, fidgety, nervous. Carrying a mobile phone in one hand and a brief case in the other. Glasses on his button nose. Shiny leather shoes. Wearing, of all things, a three-piece suit. Looking every bit as if he wouldn’t last two hours out in the field._

_For a few wild moments, Thorin found himself wishing he was getting the peg wrong, that this was just some unassuming stranger going about his day, probably late on his way to work. But then those shifty eyes found him and did a double-take, and he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Thorin had to turn away to hide his eyeroll as the little slip of a thing hobbled (HOBBLED) over to where he was seated._

_“Coffee?” the newcomer asked hesitantly._

Shit. _“No thanks,” Thorin answered, giving the agreed-upon response, “It’s too early.”_

_“Oh thank God,” the stranger breathed, “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to turn up.”_

_“I’ve been here for half an hour,” Thorin sighed, “You’re late.”_

_The other man huffed, clearly indignant, as he pulled out the seat opposite Thorin. “Yes well,” he coughed, “I do have another job, you know. An actual job.”_

_“And yet here you are,” Thorin pointed out, putting out his cigarette. The other seemed to deflate significantly at this, and Thorin couldn’t help but feel a little bad. “So, new guy. What have you got for me?”_

_“Bilbo.”_

_“...What?”_

_“My name,” said the other, “is Bilbo Baggins.”_

_Thorin chuckled humourlessly. “You_ do _know that that is one of the most dangerous things you can do, don’t you?” he told him, “Give your name away? What if I’m not who you think I am? What if I was some other guy, trying to get in on a hit before_ your _man does? What if I’ve already killed your man and I’m just waiting to get details of the target from you before I offed you too? Didn’t think of_ that _, did you?”_

 _Bilbo’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Well, this is my first day, so cut me a bit of a break!” he protested, “Besides, I_ know _you’re the right man.”_

_“Do you really?” Thorin snorted._

_“Yes!” Bilbo insisted._

_“And how do_ you _know that, seeing as we’ve never met before today?” Thorin pressed._

_Bilbo shrugged. “I just know,” he replied, “Call it instinct or intuition. I just do.”_

_Again, Thorin just snorted. “You’re lucky you’re right,” he said, “Rule number 1: Don’t trust anything you see with your eyes right away; nothing is as it seems. Little tip for you, since it’s your first day and all.”_

_Bilbo glared at him. Actually glared at him. Thorin couldn’t help but be amused._

_“First, you put me down,” Bilbo enumerated, “And now you’re patronizing me. I’ll thank you to choose something in the middle of that, something even bordering on respect for a colleague. I_ can _still take this somewhere else, after all, you haven’t seen the file yet.”_

_Thorin could easily tell him that no, he couldn’t actually take his business elsewhere because he would risk exposure and most likely get killed for it, but the fact that little Bilbo seemed to be growing a set kept him from doing so. Instead, he raised his hands as if in surrender or an offering of truce._

_“Thank you,” Bilbo sighed, putting his case on the table and clicking it open, “I promise this will be painless.”_

_The sound of ruffling papers followed, and Thorin took the time to peer at his new informant. He was too neat, too tidy, to look even halfway threatening. That crisp suit was definitely a good cover though, if it_ is _one in the first place. He looked nothing like Thorin’s previous informants had, and yet that might have been the beauty of it. Bilbo looked ordinary, just like everybody else around him. No one would ever suspect him. Thorin could respect that._

_Bilbo handed him a folder wordlessly, and as Thorin perused the details of his next target, he couldn’t help but feel as though Bilbo was watching him. He chanced a glance, and sure enough Bilbo looked hastily away, clearing his throat. He spared him only a small smirk before returning to the file._

_“Did he say anything else?” Thorin asked Bilbo, who seemed to still be trying to distract himself._

_“No,” he answered, “Only that everything is in there, and you’d know what to do from here.”_

_Something in the way he said the last few words made Thorin look up at him. Bilbo seemed uneasy, even a little squeamish. Thorin figured he knew why. He put the folder down, careful to keep it closed and to put one hand over it._

_“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” he asked, trying not to sound mocking._

_“I have...questions,” Bilbo replied honestly, unable to meet Thorin’s eyes, “But I figure the less I know, the safer it is for everyone. Am I right?”_

_Thorin offered him a non-committal shrug._

_“Besides,” Bilbo continued, “I’m doing this mostly for the fast extra cash. If I had any other choice, I’d have taken it by now. So no, I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into. I have an idea, but I frankly don’t want to know more than that. I don’t think I’d be able to stomach it anyway.”_

_“I’m sensing a little judgment thrown my way,” Thorin teased._

_“After the way this morning has gone between you and I so far, I think I’m entitled to a bit of it,” Bilbo shot back._

_The laugh Thorin let out this time actually had some humor in it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, sealed as if lives depended on it. He slid it across the table to Bilbo, who side-eyed it rather hard before taking it from him._

_“We’d best be on our way,” Thorin informed him, taking out another cigarette and lighting it, “We can’t be seen together for too long. You go straight back to where you came from, but don’t hurry. Be careful who you talk to; it’s probably best if you didn’t stop to talk to anyone until you got back. Don’t answer your phone until you’ve arrived, no matter who is calling. Oh, and you’re not to come back here for a few weeks. Is that understood?”_

_But Bilbo seemed to barely able hear him. While Thorin spoke, he had looked into the envelope, and the amount of money seemed to take the breath out of him. Thorin reached out and put his hand on the envelope, closing it._

_“You’ll do best to get over the amount quickly,” he advised, “The bigger the hit, the bigger the payout. Now, did you hear me?”_

_“I heard you,” Bilbo scoffed, “...Will I see you again?”_

_Thorin shrugged. “If I get out of this alive?” he added, “Hopefully not for a long time.” With that, he rose out of his chair, taking the folder with him to burn when he found somewhere safe to do so._

_“Until next time then, Thorin,” he heard Bilbo say._

_That made Thorin stop in his tracks. He pivoted on the spot, fixing Bilbo with something he thought was between a glare and a gasp. Whatever it was, it made Bilbo immediately purse his lips, as if realizing he’d put them both in potential danger by saying his real name out loud._

Who the fuck is this? _Thorin couldn’t help but think to himself as he walked away,_ Goddammit, Gandalf.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

Thorin’s eyes flutter open, his vision blurry and unfocused. Still, he takes in white walls, artificial cold, and a smell of chemicals in the air.

“What in...” he stammers, trying to sit up, only for his head to throb madly, effectively stopping him. With a groan, he falls back against the pillows, the sound of metal clanging barely registering in his brain.

“Awake at last,” says a familiar voice, raspy but strong.

“Fucking...” Thorin mutters, rubbing at his eyes, “Gandalf?”

“Easy, lad,” Gandalf advises as he walks into Thorin’s still focusing sight, “Don’t rush yourself, you’re in no fit state just yet.”

Thorin tries to sit up again, more careful this time, and he manages it after what feels like a century. “Where the hell am I?” he asks groggily.

“Hospital,” Gandalf replies nonchalantly, almost cheerily as well, “Someone saw you collapse in the airport and when the paramedics couldn’t wake you, an ambulance was called.”

“Hospi...” Thorin trails off, his brain seeming to still be unable to function, “How long have I ---”

“Three days,” Gandalf answers immediately, “Give or take a few hours. They couldn’t find anything in your blood to pinpoint the reason for your spell.”

“Holy shit,” Thorin mutters, rubbing at his face. He gives himself time to take in his surroundings. He’s hooked up to a dextrose drip, and the television is turned on but on a low volume. The AC is turned up way too cold. There’s a roll-in tray of food in one corner, and nothing on it looks even remotely appetizi—

“FUCK!” Thorin gasps, “Gandalf...Bilbo...” He yelps when his sudden outburst sends a throb of pain into his head again.

“Easy,” Gandalf repeats, “Deep breaths. Don’t overexert yourself, you’re not quite ready.”

“I have to get out of here,” Thorin tells him, “Gandalf, I have to go. I have to find him!”

Gandalf’s eyebrows nearly meet in the middle. “Find who?” he asks.

The realization that Gandalf has absolutely no idea what’s happened in the past few days hits Thorin like a cold wave. “You...You don’t know?” he stutters, “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“Know what, Thorin?” Gandalf asks, and it seems he’s starting to panic too.

“Goddammit, Gandalf!” Thorin hollers, and that sends another spark into his throbbing head, “Bilbo! He’s been taken!”

“Taken?” Gandalf echoes, shocked, “When? By who?”

“I don’t know,” Thorin admits, “This guy...Fuck, he just came up to me at the airport and told me he had Bilbo, and that I had to find him before my time was up, or else. But I don’t even fucking know where to start, I don’t know who the fuck he is, I don’t know how he knew _me_.” He heaves, his forehead in his hands. “Fuck, I knew it, I knew this was going to happen. He was never fit for this kind of life, I don’t know what the hell you were thinking sending him in like you did, and now he’s gone, and goddammit, he could be _dead_ , Gandalf, that Smaug fucker could’ve killed him by now and he’s just making me think that Bilbo is still alive, and _fuck_ , I need to get the hell out of here.”

But Gandalf’s face has paled, his eyes seeming unfocused until they look back at Thorin, and then a look of dread and sadness fills his face.

“...Gandalf?” Thorin asks, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“That name,” Gandalf says softly, “What was that name again?”

They are staring hard at each other, student and pupil. Gandalf looks like he’s about to collapse. Thorin thinks he himself must be staring daggers at him.

“Gandalf,” Thorin enunciates slowly, trying his damnedest best to keep his tone even, “What do you know?”

Gandalf shakes his head slowly, so slowly, and it seems to Thorin that tears are welling up in the old man’s eyes. “Tell me what happened,” Gandalf asks of him, “Tell me exactly what happened, and then I promise you I will tell you _everything_ I know.”

“Gandalf --” Thorin says warningly, but Gandalf puts up a hand to stop him.

“Thorin, please,” he pleads, “I need to know what happened. It might inform what _I_ have to tell _you_ in return.”

Thorin heaves a huge sigh, and begins to tell Gandalf as much as he can remember, up until he watched Smaug walk away. As his story progresses, Gandalf face seems to fall even more, until he looks older and more tired than Thorin has ever seen him.

“Your wrist,” Gandalf says, when Thorin is done, “Show me your wrist.”

Thorin reaches out his left hand, and Gandalf takes it, turning it carefully in his hand. “I don’t see anything,” Thorin tells him.

“It hurt, did it not?” Gandalf asks him, still examining the skin of Thorin’s wrist, “When he held you and then let you go, and that was when you fainted? If I am not mistaken, that was...Ah. Here.” He bends down slightly and pulls Thorin’s arm up closer to his eyes. “Yes, there. Just small enough to be inconspicuous. It was one of his favourite methods. Whatever it was he used always went undetected in blood tests. Little wonder yours turned up clean. Although, thankful as I am that you did not die, it almost frightens me that he let you live.”

“What the fuck are you even talking about anymore?” Thorin asks, taking his hand back, angry that he let someone outsmart him like that, “Who is he?”

Gandalf sighs heavily. “One of the best there ever was,” he admits, “I’d never seen anyone like him. When Smaug said ‘quick and quiet,’ he meant it. He was never caught. He was never idle; he was always looking for the next job, the next hit. He kept all of us on our toes. He was far more dangerous than he should’ve been, and we feared he would snap. One day, he did. And then we never heard from him again. Bilbo thought him dead, and wanted out for good after that job.”

“Bilbo?” Thorin asks, “How would Bilbo even know him? He wasn’t anything before you brought him in as my new man.”

Realization dawns for what must be the fifth time on Gandalf. “He never told you?” Gandalf gasps.

“Told me what?” Thorin echoes, “Gandalf, what the fuck is going on? What are you not telling me? What is _everyone_ not telling me?!”

“My dear boy,” Gandalf breathes, “Do you still, after all these years, believe Bilbo Baggins was only ever _your_ informant?”

This is information overload. The throbbing in Thorin’s head is getting worse by the second. “That day we met,” Thorin recounts, “He was nervous, shifty, scared...He showed all the signs of being new.”

“Oh Thorin,” Gandalf sighs, but he sounds just a little proud, “Do you honestly think I would’ve assigned you someone inexperienced? You, with all your skills and counts and talents? That day, at the cafe, when you met Bilbo Baggins for the first time, you saw only what he wanted you to see. You saw a reluctant, small man seemingly unfit for the field, when in truth it was an act put on by a highly-skilled, very experienced member of our team, who had been taught everything he knew by one of the most talented agents the team has ever had.”

Thorin is shaking his head, but he’s only barely conscious of it. His entire life with Bilbo is flashing in front of his eyes, and he can’t help wondering now how much of it was real, if any at all.

“Bilbo Baggins was Smaug’s man,” Gandalf reveals quietly, almost apologetically, “He never spoke of that final job with him, why he came back filthy and so wounded it was a miracle he was alive. He only told me that he was finished, and wanted no more part of it. We let him go with much hesitation. He, too, had never been found out. He kept up appearances so well that some of our own team seemed to forget he had been working with us at all.

“We didn’t hear from him again for a whole year, and when he did, he was pleading. His sister and her husband had been in a fatal accident, leaving a young son, and seeing as he was the only living relative, he had to take care of him. The extra mouth to feed meant he needed more funds. He had no choice. He came back to us, and I knew there was only one man to align him with, someone I knew would protect him and keep him out of trouble.”

Thorin isn’t sure he can willingly listen anymore. There’s a sharp stab somewhere in his chest that hurts more than he thinks it probably should.

“He had to pretend he was new,” Gandalf goes on, “To avoid recognition. I had thought that at some point that you would figure it all out, or better yet, that he would tell you all this himself, but it appears I was wrong. Perhaps it was for the best.”

“It can’t be,” Thorin argues, finding his voice at last, although his throat feels dry, “It just...It can’t be true, Gandalf.”

“It _is_ , Thorin,” Gandalf assures him.

“The nephew though,” Thorin points out, “I’ve been living with him for 3 years, I’ve never seen a nephew.”

“He sent young Frodo away,” Gandalf explains, “I do not know where, for I told Bilbo I did not want to know, it could put the boy in danger. Although I daresay that you were headed to him at last, now that you were both out of the game.”

“Fuck...” Thorin murmurs into his hands. It’s all too much to take in for one day. Maybe he should have just stayed unconscious.

 _Bilbo needs you_ , he hears himself say again, _Bilbo’s counting on you. Bilbo trusts you._

 _Yes_ , he can’t help but think back at himself, _But can_ I _keep trusting_ him _?_

“Thorin,” Gandalf says, “I am terribly sorry. You should have heard this from no one else but him. But we have no choice; he couldn’t tell you now even if he wanted to. But if you want to know everything, you _must_ find him. Find Smaug. Bring them both back, and we’ll be able to clear everything.”

Thorin swallows heavily. “I don’t think I want to know any more than what you’ve told me,” he tells Gandalf honestly, “What good will any of it do me now?”

“So you are to leave Bilbo to whatever fate Smaug has in store for him?” Gandalf asks, although his tone is more inquiry than accusation.

 _Suffering_ , Smaug had told Thorin, _Vengeance. A reclamation of the past to let a renaissance begin. Death?_

Thorin can still hear him clearly, as if he was standing right there beside Thorin, whispering into his ear. A chill runs down Thorin’s spine.

“No,” Thorin sighs, “No, I won’t.”

Almost as if on cue, Thorin’s phone goes off, alerting the two to a received message. Wincing a little, Thorin reaches for his mobile. An unknown number. _Of course it is_.

_Awake yet, Mr Oakenshield?_

Thorin hands his mobile to Gandalf, who frowns at Smaug’s text message. “What will you do?” Gandalf asks him.

“What I have to,” Thorin growls, “Get me out of here.”

 

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

Bilbo’s thumb lingers over the mobile number, and he takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep his wits about him.

“You still remember his number,” Smaug chuckles softly, “How sweet.”

The urge to throw the phone at his smug face is overwhelming, but Bilbo knows better. Instead, he grips the phone tighter. “His number is worth remembering,” he replies simply, keeping his tone in check.

It does the trick. Smaug takes a swing at him with the back of his palm, and it cracks hard across Bilbo’s cheek.

“Careful, Bilbo,” Smaug hisses, as calm as his slap was angry, “We’ve only just started. Now, the phone, please.”

Bilbo fixes those cold gray eyes with his own blue ones, jutting out his jaw slightly and tipping his chin up a little in defiance even as he hands the phone to Smaug.

Smaug takes the phone from him, a cheap, flimsy knock-off, and after briefly holding it in the air for Bilbo to see, throws it to the ground with enough force to make it come apart. As if for good measure, he stomps on it with his foot, crushing the ruined mechanics.

“I’ll expect for you lunch,” Smaug says, all but leering, before he sweeps out of the room.

Bilbo waits for all the locks to click into place, and only then does he allow himself to crumple to the ground, arms resting on his raised knees, swallowing thickly as he tries to will the urge to cry away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the suuuuuuuuuuuuper long wait on the update for this! My writers' block kept threatening to take over, and I sat on the draft for this chapter for a very, VERY, long time, but here it is, and hopefully it was worth the wait.
> 
> Bit of a **warning** though for a bit of **_creepy, unwarranted touching_**. It's just the way Smaug's character is, but I promise you nothing is completely non-consensual here other than for a couple of seconds.
> 
> Thanks again for hanging about and waiting for this, I'll try not to take too long to update next time. :D

It's a full 20 minutes that Bilbo lets pass before he steps out of his room. As usual, there is a guard waiting outside for him, dressed in an Armani suit and big black Ray-Bans, ready with a blindfold and binds for his wrists. He never talks, of course, and after at least 3 days ( _has_ it been 3 days?) of this, Bilbo has learned to not even try and engage him in any sort of conversation.

He is led, bound and blindfolded, out of the dimly-lit, nigh on claustrophobic hallways and into what Bilbo assumes is a small lift. A few more turns and a stair climb later, he's made to stand still as the ropes around his hands are removed, followed by the blindfold. Bilbo blinks against the sudden harsh glare of the lights, squinting as he tries to refocus his sight.

The dining room, much as the rest of the house is, is as far different as possible from the space that Bilbo is being kept in. Here, it's all polished wood and Persian rugs, marble and porcelain statues of mythological creatures and figures, and hanging from the ceiling, a crystal chandelier with a single gold dragon, about a foot long, dropped through the middle and rotating slowly from where it's hanging, watching over the long, mahogany table. At one end of the table, dressed in a turtleneck and wearing an unreadable expression, is a ghost of Bilbo's past.

"You kept me waiting," Smaug states softly, his tone nonchalant, his intent clearly anything but, "Never do that again."

Bilbo says nothing as a servant walks up and pours burgundy wine into Smaug's glass. Bilbo thinks he looks fmailiar, with his slicked back hair and his slightly unkempt moustache and goatee, but he cahn't quite place him.

"Have a seat, won't you?" Smaug offers, voice low and silky, "Lest the food go cold."

Still saying nothing, Bilbo does as he is told, settling into the chair directly across Smaug. As he pulls himself in, he accidentally bumps the table with enough force to knock a few things a few millimeters askew. Bilbo doesn't miss the sour expression that fleetingly corsses Smaug's face as he looks down at his utensils and casually straightens his fork again.

Servers come in and place bowls in front of the both of them. The aroma of it watfts up to Bilbo, and much to his own dismay his stomach reacts a bit too eagerly.

"Your favourite soup, for starters," Smaug narrates, already stirring his, "French onion and cheese, seasoned with leeks and garlic, just the way you liked to make it."

In any other circumstance, coming from any other person, Bilbo would have been flattered that anyone would remember the way he likes his soup. Now, however, Bilbo can only poke at the melted cheese on the top of the soup, unsure that he really wants to give it a go, no matter how hungry he is.

"My friend, there's nothing to fear, I assure you," he hears Smaug chuckle from across the room, "It's not poisoned. As a matter of fact, it's rather good. No one would benefit from you being poisoned."

As if to prove his point, Smaug spoons some into his mouth, letting out an appreciative sigh. "Yes, quite good," he observes, "Although I must say, it lacks your magic touch, a certain something that's distinctly you."

"What am I doing here?" Bilbo asks.

"I thought that was obvious," Smaug replies with a smirk of amusement, "Lunch."

"I've no patience for your cheek, SMaug, and even less for the rest of you," Bilbo shoots back, frustration bubbling, "I've been locked up for days with absolutely no idea how the hell I got here, or where the fuck I am. I'm never allowed to leave my 'room' - and God, it's not a room, is it, it's a decorated cell - except on orders, and always bound and blindfolded. I'm sitting here at a decadent dining table with a man I watched die five years ago. At least do me the courtesy of answering my questions properly, you son of a bitch."

Smaug dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "You haven't changed, Bilbo Baggins," he says with a smile, raising his wine to him in a toast, "Still fiery and sharp. Still the same Bilbo I loved."

Bilbo shudders at the word, and the quick flashes of memory it dredges up. "You didn't love me, you used me," he huffs darkly, "I was just someone to take care of you, someone to feed you and clothe you and tend your wounds when you were hurt, a body to fuck when your cock needed attention. You didn't actually care, you never did."

"You were everything to me," Smaug corrects.

"I was nothing to you," Bilbo shoots back.

"You were my world," counters Smaug.

"I was your secret!" Bilbo argues.

"...Have some soup, Bilbo."

"I'm not fucking hungry."

"I think I'm offended, Bilbo. After all the trouble I went to have all this prepared for you..."

"I think I don't care that I've offended you, frankly."

"I think you  _should_ care."

"Well, I don't."

"But you will. You will, dear Bilbo, befor all this is over. You will care that you've offended me. You will care that you hurt me. You will care that you betrayed me."

"You were dead!" Bilbo growls, "I saw it happen. I fucking held you until I couldn't anymore! I didn't have a choice, what good would it be for anyone if we had both died that day? Do you think I wannted to leave you there? I couldn't have done anything for you! It wasn't my fault! It wasn't...It wasn't my fault..."

He only becomes accutely aware that he is shaking, his hands balled into fists, his eyes wet with unshed tears, his face hot. When he looks up, he finds Smaug staring at him with an almost serene expression on his face, and it looks a bit as though he might be smiling.

"Are you quite finished?" he asks Bilbo, "Only, you haven't touched your soup."

With a shout, Bilbo flings his bowl away, spilling its contents on the floor and the table. Still, Smaug doesn't even flinch.

"Right," he says, head cocked to one side, "Back to your room then, I think, and no meals until you learn to appreciate what I'm doing for you."

Bilbo isn't sure what makes him do it, but he grabs his knife off the table and with a trick flick of the wrist that Thorin had taught him once, he chucks the knife. It embeds itself into the chair, just a couple of inches away from Smaug's left eye. The guard descends on Bilbo, grabbing his wrists and tying them behind his back.

"You missed, old friend," Smaug tells him, as if informing him of the weather.

"No, I didn't," Bilbo replies, "If I did, it'd have gone through your smug little face." The guard cuts him off by blindfolding him tightly. As he is dragged away, he hears Smaug ask for more wine.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

Deprived of any sort of timepiece, Bilbo isn't sure what time it is when he finally drifts off to sleep, anger simmering into exhausting frustration, his hunger passing only to transform into a massive migraine. He dreams, a rare happening behind these stone walls.

_There's no clear plotline, or if there is one, his brain is far too tired to remember._

_There are images of Frodo, and of the home he had tried to raise him in. It melts and reforms into a beach villa, or possibly a shoreside resort, in a country Bilbo can't quite identify. There are unfamiliar but seemignly pleasant people milling about, sipping drinks or having coffee or enjoying the water. He turns a corner and up some stairs, and then into what is aparently his room. No, a suite. It's bright and big, the gentle, cold sea breeze blowing in through the open sliding doors that lead to a balcony._

_There's someone out there, shirtless and barefoot, but in white pants, lean, muscled back turned to Bilbo. Bilbo approaches, but as he calls out to Thorin and reaches out to touch him, the balcony's ballusters crumble and the railing gives way, pitching Thorin off and down. With a yell of panic, Bilbo hits the deck and stretches out to grab Thorin's wrist. Suddenly everything is dark, rainy, windy. He tries to pull Thorin back up, but his grip is slipping. He feels ice stab through his heart as Thorin's hand slides out of his, and then Bilbo is watching him fall into an endless hole. Bilbo calls out one more time, and the falling body twists in mid-air to look up at Bilbo, whose gasp dies in his throat._

_Smaug, bloodied broken bruised Smaug stares up at him, accusation clear on his cold, dead face._

_  
_Bilbo wakes with a jolt, only to be shushed by Smaug, clean and pristine again, sitting by his bedside and rubbing at his shoulder blades comfortingly.

"Hush, Bilbo," Smaug coos, "Little Bilbo, it's all right."

When Bilbo's wits finally return to him in full, he yelps, quickly batting Smaug away and hastily jumping off the bed. He crowds himself into a corner, admittedly not the best plan in the world. As he pants, his heartbeat racing, his chest heaving, Bilbo watches Smaug twist where he's seated.

"Bad dream?" Smaug asks with a small smile, sounding for all the world as if he's asking about the weather.

"Why are you here?" Bilbo stammers.

Smaug gives him a nonchalant shrug. "I live here," he replies, as if the answer should've been painfully obvious.

"You've never come in before," Bilbo observes, "Not while I was sleeping."

He hears Smaug mutter something that sounds suspiciously like "That's what you think."

"Look, I don't know what you're doing in here," Bilbo continues, "But please, would you just...Will you go, please? It's creepy enough that you watch, but when you come in and actually  _touch me_ in my bloody sleep..."

"But you looked so uncomfortable," Smaug answers, pouting a little, "I only wanted to help relieve some of your tension."

"Like hell you did," Bilbo counters darkly, eyeing the camera perched high on the wall opposite his bed, and then the door, "Are they --"

"Yes," Smaug interrupts, "Camera watching, door locked. You didn't honestly think I'd be so careless, did you? Or perhaps you hoped I would be?"

Bilbo says nothing, half-panicking and half-angry. This seems to satisfy Smaug, who rises from the bed at last and walks to the roller cart Bilbo has only just noticed. 

"A peace offering," Smaug explains, lifting the cover to reveal white sauced pasta, some cheese and red wine, "Fresh from the kitchens. And no, my friend, the food is  _still_ not poisoned."

Bilbo doesn't risk approaching just yet. "I thought you said no meals," he reminds Smaug, who chuckles as though he had just been complimented.

"Yes well," he shrugs, "Starving you would only make you more hostile, and I do not wish to make an enemy of you, Bilbo."

"Really?" Bilbo snorts, "Could've fooled me. Then again, you've always had a tendency, a penchant even, for saying one thing yet meaning and doing another,  _friend_."

"And that is why I am the best agent The Grey has ever had," Smaug replies.

Bilbo laughs derisively. "Were," he corrects, "You  _were_ the best, but no longer."

Smaug sighs. "Are your thoughts always of him?" he asks, seeming truly disappointed, "Have you truly spared none for me?"

"Every once in a while, yes, if I am to be honest," Biblo answers quietly, "When you were dead. There was a time my every waking thought was of you, and I would end up crying myself to sleep again." Bilbo finds himself surprised by this sudden confession; wasn't he just planning an escape two minutes ago?

"And what were you thinking," Smaug inquires, "When you thought of me? In those days, at least. I daresay I would not have to try at all to guess how you think of me now."

 _At least he's distracted_ , Bilbo thinks, trying to keep his expression passive.

"I thought it was all so unfair," Bilbo tells him, "I found myself questioning everything. Why did it have to be you? You were strong, quick, lethal. You were invincible. You were the best. I looked up to you. I knew I could never be like you, not even half. So why did  _I_ live, and not you? It wasn't fair, none of it. I wanted...I wanted to..."

He can't finish. He is crying, although he's not sure when he had started. And he can't stop confessing now that he's started.

"I wanted to die," he admits, voice as wet as his cheeks, "I didn't understand anything anymore. I wanted to die if it meant that I'd...that we'd..." Bilbo isn't sure when he had turned away or let Smaug out of his sight, but when he looks up again, SMaug is standing right in front of him, watching him with something touching on concern, almost apologetic. He reaches out, and in that moment Bilbo doesn't recoil or try to get away. Smaug's hand nearly touches his cheek before he seems to think betoerr of it, and draws his hand back, instead offering Bilbo a glass of water.

"It doesn't have to be this way, you know," Smaug suggests, walking away as Bilbo drinks the water down and lets it calm him, "You'[ve never done well inside stone walls. You deserve fresh air, sunlight, a lush garden, proper furniture..."

Bilbo sets his glass aside. "And yet, this is what I get," he states, "Going back to what I said about you earlier..."

"No, my friend," Smaug laughs, "I said it's what you deserved, not what you have. But you  _could_ have it. The comfortable house, the luxury car, all of it. The peaceful, solitary life you've been dreaming of having."

"Not without cost, I'm sure," Bilbo snorts, "You do make a tempting offer, but you'd be insulting my intelligence to deny that there is a catch."

"Astute as always," Smaug says with a grin, "I think you'll be happy to know that this will be an easy choice."

Bilbo is tempted to reply that nothing is ever easy when it comes to Smaug, but he decides he's pushing the limits of Smaug's friendliness as it is. "And are you going to tell me what the choice is?" he asks instead, "Or at least, what I'll be choosing between?"

"Not just yet," his captor answers, "Doesn't quite feel like the right time. Soon. For now, enjoy your dinner."

He walks away and to the door with a bit of a flourish, and knocks thrice on the door. Bilbo hears the locks being released, and in those few seconds, Bilbo contemplates making a break for the door when it opens. He could push past Smaug, knock his head into the wall to daze him at least, take out the guard if there is one (of  _course_ there will be one), then run... _  
_

But then the door does swing open, and then Smaug is gone, and it closes again, the locks sliding heavily back into place. Bilbo is alone again.

He blinks, his mind racing and then slowing. He feels an inclination to shake his head clear. It's like he's waking from a daze. He can't quite fathom the fact that he's just had a somewhat civil conversation with Smaug, and that he's come out of it unscathed. His eyes focus and refocus, and it's taking his mind a while to recognize where he is. When his sight lands on the roller tray of food, his stomach grumbles. With a huge sigh, he pushes it over to the bed, where he can have at it in comfort. The wine is sweet, the cheese creamy and the pasta divine. Of  _course_ it would be.

 

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

 

"...Only what you can bring," Thorin says into his mobile, his other hand on the steering wheel of the car, "...No, I know that, Kili, but it's best we travel light...Only if he wants to, otherwise don't force him..."

He ignores the sidelong glance Dwalin gives him from the front passenger seat.

"No, no, we're not," Thorin replies in answer to Kili's question, and then he's giving Dwalin a quick look, "Yes, of course, I need him...All right, ETA 12 minutes. And Kili...don't tell your mother."

"You know she's there," Dwalin warns Thorin as he hangs up, "If she sees her son packing his computers..."

"All I said was for him not to tell her," Thorin argues, "I'll tell her myself. She wouldn't understand either way."

"She's not going to understand, period," Dwalin snorts.

"Oh, and you're the one to make her understand, are you?" Thorin shoots back, a little sharper than he had probably intended, "...I'm sorry, mate. I'm tense."

Dwalin reaches out and pats him hard on the shoulder. "I know," he tells him, "We'll get him back, mate. We'll find him."

Thorin nods, more to himself than in reply to Dwalin. "I know," he answers quietly, "I know..."

 

 

 


End file.
